The Patrimony (17 page)

“Yes,” replied Tim, “he must be—must have been—my sire’s warhorse. Have you or Redhoney had trouble here?”

Steelsheen gave another derisive snort. “Only mares and geldings are within this place and all are frightened of me… of Redhoney, too, for all that she is only a mare.” He tossed his raven mane. “The two-legs fear us, too, all save the one called Tahmahs. He respects us but no reek of fear is on him.”

Tim reflected that he did not blame the other horses and the stablehands one damn bit. A fully trained warhorse was as dangerous as a stud bull, more dangerous, really, because of the added intelligence. No horse of merely average intelligence ever received full war training, which was one reason why they were so expensive and so treasured by their purchasers. Another reason was their unswerving loyally to the ‘one man they considered a brother—warhorses had been known to stand, riderless, over the body of a dead or wounded rider and fight with teeth and flailing hooves until aid came or they were themselves slain.

“Whatever happens,” he admonished the big horse, “you and Redhoney are to allow no man to mount you save me or my brother, Geros. Understood?”

“But what of our brother, Rai?” queried the gray.

“Our brother, Rai, is gone to Wind,” answered Tim, soberly. “Tell Redhoney that I already have taken a partial vengeance for his killing, and I shortly will take the rest.”

Tim found Master Tahmahs in a tackroom-cum-office. Only his silver-shot black hair stamped the horse master as having any trace of Ehleen blood. Otherwise, he might have been a clansman fresh from the Sea of Grass, with his wiry, slender build, fair skin and bright-blue eyes. He was industriously softening a new bridle when Tim entered. He glanced up, saw the visitor and the blood-splashed clothing and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“It’s started then, my lord Tim? Good! How many dead so far?”

“Two,” answered Tim shortly. “My sergeant, murdered by arrow poison and that thrice-damned outlaw priest the bitch was harboring—though he may not be dead yet. I doubt that he is; belly wounds don’t kill quickly.”

The horsemaster nodded. “But there’re no wounds so agonizing. Yet I’ve heard no screams from the gelded bastard.”

Tim laughed coldly. “Nor will you, not from him. I sliced out most of his treasonous tongue.”

Tahmahs chuckled. “That will put a burr under her saddle for sure, my lord. I think she dotes on that priest damned near as much as on her tongue-sister or on that sad excuse of a man, Myron. But what will my lord have of me?”

“Please pardon my asking, but ten years is a long time away. Are you trained to arms, Master Tahmahs?”

Tahmahs grinned. “Twenty years a Confederation dragoon, my lord.”

“Then I need you here at the hall,” said Tim. “Is there a good rider among your men, one you can trust in all things?”

Tahmahs replied, “My youngest son, Divros. He is not yet fourteen or he would, like his brothers, be gone up to Goohm to enlist, but he is as big as me and near as strong and a better rider than I ever was.”

“Call him here,” snapped Tim, impatient to find Geros and start the action.

When the strapping boy stood before him, the young captain asked, “Divros, is your loyalty to me or to my father’s widow?”

Tahmahs snorted. “No need to question that, my lord Tim. Four years ago that precious pair, Lord Myron and his bum-boy, found Divros alone and tried to strip and bugger him by force. Of course my lad fought, but what could a nine-year-old do against two lads near as big as I am? It was a near thing and they’d have had their unnatural way with him, had not your brother, Behrl, happened along and beaten Myron bloody and sobbing. So, you need have no doubts as to where the loyalties of me and mine lie.”

“Very well, Divros, which is the fastest, strongest horse in the stables?” demanded Tim.

The boy did not hesitate. “Lord Myron’s roan hunter, Tahkoos, my lord.”

“Have you ever ridden him, Divros?”

The boy smiled. “Oh, yes, my lord. He says he likes me better than Lord Myron.”

Tim nodded again. “Good. Saddle him and ride to Morguhn Hall, or until you find my half brother,
Ahrkeethoheeks
Bili of Morguhn. Here,” with effort, he wrenched the ruby ring from his finger, “hang this on a thong about your neck, under your shirt; show it only to Bili, as proof that you come from me.

“Tell the
ahrkeethoheeks
that matters here have progressed faster than we had thought or planned for. Tell him to send my company to me at the gallop. Tell him to alert the High Lords that far more than had been suspected is afoot here in Vawn. Tell him that real rebellion is probable unless we strike quickly and drastically. Warn him to not, under any circumstances, impart aught of this to Prince Zenos. Can you remember it all, boy?”

When the lad could repeat the various parts of the message to his satisfaction, Tim sent him off to saddle the gelding and turned back to Tahmahs.

“Do you have any weapons in the stables?”

Tahmahs nodded soberly. “Yes, my lord, Sir Geros secreted a nice little store in my keeping.”

Then arm your son with at least a dirk and a spear; bow and saber, too, if he knows how to use them. No sense in burdening him and his mount with armor or target though. His job is to get to Lord Bili, not to stand and fight.

“Immediately Divros is on the road, turn all the other horses into the pasture. Not mine, though—I don’t want him fighting with your king stallion. You might put Redhoney, the mare, in with Steelsheen. They wont harm each other, and as she has just lost her brother, she might be comforted by being nearer to a familiar horse.

“When you’re done with that, round up Sergeant Mahrtuhn and his dragoons. They, you and any of your men you feel are loyal to me are to take as many weapons as you can carry, all the food you can find and at least one skin of water per man and come to the
thoheek
’
s
suite. If anyone—anyone! —gets in your way, you have my leave to cut him down. Understood, Master Tahmahs?”

Tim and Geros found just what the young captain had suspected in the cellar armory—the racks and chests and cupboards were all nearly empty of weapons and armor.

“But, my 1… but, Tim, there be no place in this hall that such quantities of arms could have been hidden without me knowing of it from the few loyal ones, and that quickly.”

“Just so,” agreed Tim. Then he asked, “How long since you’ve been in any of the hall villages?”

“A month, at least, Tim, maybe two. It’s Tonos, the major-domo’s, part to deal with the villagers, him and the head cook, Myron’s bumboy, Gaios.”

“I caught that castrated goat of an Ehleen priest in the bath chamber and hung him up on a beam with his wrists lashed behind him while we… ahh, conversed. He told me some very interesting things. One of them is that for the last half-year, Mehleena’s agents have been hiring bandits and gutter-scrapings from all over the Principate of Karaleenos, bringing them into this duchy surreptitiously and billeting them in the hall villages, at least a hundred of them that the priest knew of.”

Geros looked stunned. “But why, Tim? She had no idea you were still alive until you rode in this morning.”

Tim chuckled. “She knows the Sanderz Kindred have precious little liking for her and even less for Myron. Had I not come back, if they had chosen one of their own number to be chief of Sanderz, she was going to turn her pack loose against all the Sanderz Kindred, noble or not, and depend upon her cousin, Prince Zenos, to save her hide with Brother Bili and the High Lords by claiming that the Kindred had been in armed revolt against their rightful lord. She might have gotten away with her infamy, but…” He shrugged meaningfully.

“So, you can bet your boots that all the arms, save only those you squirreled away and the pitiful remnants in this room, are now on the backs or in the hands of her private army of rebel ruffians, down in the hall villages. Which fact, incidentally, answers any doubts you might have entertained about where Tones’ loyalty lies. He’s Mehleena’s and no mistake!”

Sir Geros’s brow wrinkled. “But… but what if you had not come back and if the Kindred had chosen Myron to be chief?”

“Yes, I posed that question, too. The good priest required a bit more persuasion before he’d give me an answer, but after I’d dislocated one of his shoulders, he became much more talkative. If Myron had been elected and confirmed, Mehleena and her banditti would bide their time. It seems that there is a widespread conspiracy afoot in Karaleenos, Geros. The priest was certain that some very high personages—possibly even Zenos himself—are involved. When this pack had gained enough strength, they were to rise up in every duchy, county, baronetcy, city, town and village, slaughter the Kindred and declare an independent Kingdom of Karaleenos.”

“Madness!” declared Sir Geros, vehemently. “Utter insanity! In a frontier duchy, say, such a scheme might even work out… for a little while. But here, in the very heart of the Confederation, it’s doomed from the start. Kehnooryos Ehlahs abuts the whole northern border of Karaleenos and the Ahrmehnee
Stahn
the whole western. To the south, lie the Associated Duchies, and to the east is the sea, commanded by the Confederation Fleet. So who, what idiot, could think such a plan would last any longer than it took word to reach Kehnooryos Atheenahs?”

Tim shrugged. “Present company excepted, of course, what Ehleen ever thought with his head rather than his emotions? Well, there’s damn-all here for us. They left only junk. Get back to your house and arm yourself. I’ll be in the
thoheeks”
suite with the others.”

“But, Tim, would it not be better for us to make our stand down here in the magazines? We’d have no shortage of either water or food here.”

The young captain growled, “No, by Sun and Wind, I’ll not be driven into a hole in the ground! This is
my
hall, Geros, and by my steel, I’ll hold it. Father had the central portion built for just such a contingency as this. With the doors to the wings locked and barred, it can be held by a small force against anyone not willing to burn down the whole place… and, grasping as the bitch is, I don’t think Mehleena would see the hall in ashes, even if it meant my death.”

The horror-laden screams of a maid brought Majordomo Tonos and a hastily sent servant brought the Lady Mehleena to the bath chamber.

The soft, white, womanish body of the priest hung by to bloody, swollen wrists from the central beam. The shoulders had become disjointed and the flesh about them was hideously discolored. A wide pool of blood was beneath the dangling feet, with more dripping from the toes. The hilt of a boot dagger stood out from the lower belly, just a few inches above the stump of the castrate’s penis. The mouth continued to dribble blood down the chin and onto the chest, and to give vent to a low, continuous whining, gurgling moan. The empty eyesockets had almost ceased to bleed.

When, at last, Mehleena had stopped her screaming, raving tantrum, Tonos approached her. “Mistress? My lady… ? May I kill Father Skahbros? It were the kindest thing anyone now can do for him. He is in great pain and dying… but he could live longer without a mercy-thrust.”

Her fat face twisted with rage. “You softheaded fool! We don’t have time for him now. To hell with him! Send a galloper down to the villages and call out the Crusaders or all will be lost for us here.” With that, she slammed the door to the bath chamber and stamped off up the hallway.

When the thin blade was into Neeka’s chest a little past half its length, Master Fahreed sliced from side to side, to damage the woman’s heart fully and so speed her death. Then he wiped the blade on her shift and stepped back. He did not mean to leave until she had ceased to breathe.

Neeka had just started her last year of the indenture when Master Lokos’ merry, plump wife, Yris, died of a fever then raging through Esmithpolisport. Hardly was she decently interred than the master himself was borne home dead from a meeting of the Heritage Council, whereat he had suddenly clutched at his chest and collapsed, expiring before he could be carried to a physician.

Koominon had the corpse borne to what had been Lokos’ bedchamber, locked himself in with it and hastily performed in private those last rites that were forbidden in public, while

Neeka summoned the servants to wash and dress their master’s body. It seemed to Neeka that fully half the inhabitants of Esmithpolisport attended the public eulogy to Master Lokos Prahseenos; even the
thoheeks
, Dahnuhld Esmith of Es-mith — who hated the salt sea and almost never came to the port which produced so much of his revenue — sat with the other notables and speakers on the podium and said a few, halting words in praise of Lokos, whom he had never met personally. At least three-quarters of the attendees joined the procession that bore the cypresswood casket to the necropolis and saw it placed between those of his two wives in the splendid mausoleum of pale-green Theesispolis limestone, with its entrance flanked by two fluted columns of white, purple-veined marble from the Associated Duchies, far to the south and west

So far as Judge Gahbros, the executor of Lokos’ sizable estate, or anyone else knew, the late master had no living relative, so inquiries for the closest relatives of his two dead wives were sent far and wide. In the meanwhile, Koominon kept the house as orderly as ever he had for Lokos and Neeka managed the shop with all that that entailed and continued the training of the apprentice’s. At length, two months after Lokos’ demise, Judge Gahbros came calling just after the dinner hour one evening.

Once he was seated and had sipped at the wine, he said, mock-chidingly, “Koominon, I told you to come to me for any funds needed to maintain poor Lokos’ establishments, yet you have not come in two moons’ time.”

Koominon smiled. “There has been no need to do so, Lord Gahbros. Our little Mistress Neeka has done so well at the shop that not only have the profits been sufficient to pay all the household expenses and salaries, but to pay as well the full expenses of the shop and to put by a few
thrahkmehee
beside.”

Neeka blushed furiously and both the men laughed. The judge reached across and patted her small hand. “Child, do not be embarrassed at honest and well-earned praise. All the Wpness and professional community is full of your praises these days. You are proving a true credit to Master Lokos’ memory. If the man who is journeying here from Linstahkpolis has a grain of sense, he’ll keep you on as his manager and trainer until you’ve put by enough to buy his shop or to set up your own.”